


Omen

by blancpeony



Category: Batman - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 02:39:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4504503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blancpeony/pseuds/blancpeony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick and Jason land in the middle of a fantasy troubled by a war not their own. This is how they cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omen

**Author's Note:**

> This will be pre-reboot Batman universe with handwave-y timelines and LOTR will be a mix of book and movie lore.
> 
> Inspired by the opening lines of Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen - _"Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide. No escape from reality."_

“Fuck. This,” grunted Jason between labored breaths, fractured ribs hurting like a _mother_ \- “Should leave. Your ass. Here.”

His companion didn't answer – Dick ceased answering coherently two days ago. Midnight-dark hair tickled his nape along with the uncomfortable sensation of fever heat and sweat pressed against his skin. Piggybacking his deadweight of a 'brother' was definitely not on his bucket list.

Painfully shifting him, trying not to overcompensate, he let out another low curse. He slowly lowered him onto the ground into the shadow of an outcropping of rock and slumped next to him, breathing in uncomfortably short gasps. Recounting the meager supplies they had, Jason knew they were in trouble. It's been five days, five long days, since they were plucked out of Gotham and found themselves in the middle next to nowhere, fatigued and injured in costume as Nightwing and Red Hood, with complete radio silence.

* * *

 

“How did we even _get_ here? Where ever here is...” Dick sat down on a boulder, injured leg stretch out in front of him. “Technology? Magic?”

“Piece of _crap_.” Jason violently shoved the tech back into his jacket, scrupulously not making eye contact with Dick.

The older man ran a hand through his already mussed-up hair. “Either the phone is broken or we're out of satellite range.”

That brought a whole other bag of speculation that he wasn't about to go into.

“...Well shit.”

* * *

 

Surrounded by wheat-yellow grasslands, hills and rocky outcrops as far as the eye could see, Jason and Dick patched their injuries as best they could, lacking proper medical supplies-

* * *

 

“Really, Golden Boy. Didn't daddy dearest teach you any better? What use does a bandaid have on the field?”

“Shut up Hood.”

“What, you're going to yell a time out at the baddies and put a bandaid over a paper cut?”

* * *

 

-then they picked a direction and walked. They trekked for miles under the wintery noon sun, neither saying a word, if only to save themselves from the inevitable arguing. Dick's limp progressively got worse as the day wore on and as Jason privately admitted to himself, he wasn't any better off with his ribs protesting, breaths coming short and hard.

On the second day they were lucky enough to stumble (literally) across civilization, or what could have been a medieval farming village often depicted in history books, except it was razed to the ground. Banked embers burned beneath stone and wood and the stench of blood and death permeated the air. They trudged through the nightmare in a tense daze.

* * *

 

A carrion bird cawed mockingly at them, menacing wings flapping as it gorged on burnt flesh.

“This is...” Dick paused, voice dry and whisper thin, “This is a massacre.”

Jason pointedly turned his eyes away from the decapitated bodies, a removed head nearby lolled to one side, face frozen in abject horror. Adults...children...animals...No living being was left alive.

The former Boy Wonder caught his jacket sleeve urgently. “We should go.”

Tearing his arm away from the light grip, he progressed faster through the ruin, ignoring the uneven steps by the other man trying to follow him. Stopping, he appraised what was left of one of the few buildings still standing, and judging it won't collapse over his head, he carefully pushed the remains of a broken door open.

“Wait-what are you doing?!”

Leaving Dick at the threshold of the dilapidated structure, he scanned the dark room, taking note of the sparse furnishings. He turned away from the murdered couple huddled on the bed, the last act of a husband covering his wife in a protective embrace, and quickly took what was needed.

“ _Jason_ -”

“Don't you ever stop talking?” Anger on a short leash, he rounded on the other man, shoving the rustic, probably ill-fitting clothing into his arms. “Change.”

Dick glowered at him disapprovingly, “We're practically grave robbing!”

“There isn't much to grave rob. You've got eyes, _Dick_. This-” He flung his free arm out. “This is a pillaged village. We're not in Gotham anymore so-” Jason turned a corner, his own bundle of clothing clutched tightly. “-change. Unless you _want_ to have Nightwing running around here.”

A soft rebellious mutter was heard as he turned away. “Yeah. Like Dick Grayson is any better.”

* * *

 

In the same village, they found a stone well in what could have been the village center. Normally they would have questioned if the water was safe to drink but-

* * *

 

“What if-we get-cholera?” asked Dick haltingly, weight shifted to one side as he helped pull up the wooden bucket from the bottom of the well. He could not stop his injured right leg from shaking minutely with strain.

“Fuck cholera.” Jason hissed through his teeth, the pain along his upper body sharp and hot, as he pulled the rope in his grip. “We might not survive long enough to see the symptoms at this rate.”

* * *

 

-the pressing edge of thirst was at the point of unbearable. No food or drink and coupled with significant blood loss on Dick's part made them more amendable to drinking the potentially tainted water. Jason refused to kick the bucket _again_ by succumbing to something like dehydration, his natural biology failing him in drawn out agony.

After gathering a few more items from the remains of the village, most significantly a waterskin, a thin corner of cheese and stale round of bread, they quickly left the grave scene, with enough silent apologies leaving Dick's lips to cover for the both of them.

And on the third day, Dick collapsed without warning.

* * *

 

“Bastard.” But it was said without rancor as he pressed a deceptively gentle hand against fevered skin. “You _bastard_.”

His companion let a shuddering sigh, eyes pinched shut. “Wound's infected, I think.”

“You think,” Jason repeated flatly as he methodically checked the poorly bandaged laceration and spotted the infected blood. “And you call yourself a vigilante.”

* * *

 

Pulling Dick up by his arm and forcing him to lean his weight on him, they stumbled off, progress slowing to a snail's crawl, both dragging their heels into the hard compact dirt. Near dusk, Jason made it to a sheltered rock and set up their meager camp there.

* * *

 

“What if...we chose...the wrong...direction...in the first place?” He slurred out, fevered eyes watching Jason.

“Seriously Dickface. You talk too much.”

* * *

 

Silence was his companion on the fourth day, landscape unchanging as he shuffled onwards with Dick slung over his back and on the fifth day...

* * *

 

Even with a rock digging painfully into his lower back and hunger a persistent companion, more persistent than the lump beside him at least, Jason was drifting on the edges of exhausted sleep.

That was, until he heard heavy steps above him and the distinct sound of snuffling. Startling into wakefulness, he carefully drew out a knife at his boot and twisted the edge until he captured the reflection of the wan moon and-

“ _-fuck_ is that a _giant saliva-dripping muzzle_?”

A muzzle full of sharp, _sharp_ teeth that was suddenly snarling as it took in the scent of the two tasty humans below it and Jason immediately threw his knife into its throat, listening to the pained whimpers taper off into a guttural roar.

A dark shape leaped off the back of the wolf on steroids. Pivoting immediately to his right, he dodged the axe that slammed near his feet and twisted another knife from a hidden holster to block the oncoming scimitar. He pushed his weight onto his assailant – an ugly humanoid beast with grisly teeth – before forcefully kicking out the feet beneath it. The monster, not expecting such tactics, flailed and lost its balance. Snagging the scimitar that fell from its grip, Jason slammed the weapon into its neck, killing the enemy.

Ignoring his protesting ribs, small mercy he didn't break them completely yet, he listened carefully to the suspiciously quiet plains.

There was a cool breeze traveling through, rifting through his greasy hair. Blood dripped from the rock face, beading onto the grass below. He tilted his head, focusing.

And as seconds passed, he at last picked up the soft sounds of a large approaching group, which magnified into a herd thundering down the plains, and the echoed howls promising retribution.

Glancing at the beast above, the monster at his feet, then at Dick, comatose, he grumbled, “This is going to get painful real fast.”

* * *

 

Scarlet sunlight was just breaking the horizon when the battle ended. Éomer stalked the blood soaked grounds, checking on his men as they gathered the wounded and dead. The skirmish this night with Saruman's forces may have dwindled the strength of his Eored but certainly not their spirits. Watching as the carcasses of the enemy burned, he turned to see the grim face of his second-in-command, Éothain.

“My lord, we found two men,” reported Éothain. “We don't believe them to be of Rohan.”

First two hobbits in the last combat. Now two men.

Led by the other warrior, Éomer approached the small stand-off by a rock face, a few of his men with their spears ready at their sides. It was as he neared did he see the silhouette of a young man, perhaps no older than twenty summers. Black ichor marked a sword that once belonged to an orc of Isengard, his stance was protective yet wary, a proud battle-weary stallion. Fresh red blood stained the tunic of his left arm and dripped slowly from his hairline, dark strands that had a strange white streak at the front; his facial features, half-shadowed, didn't lend him to be of Rohan. At his feet were the dead bodies of enemy orc and another man, untouched but unconscious, potentially a comrade-in-arms.

The young man's scimitar moved up a fraction when Éomer took another step closer. The horse lord immediately threw a hand up to stop Éothain from drawing his sword. “Peace. Who are you and where do you hail from?”

Tense silence was eventually broken. “Jason. My name is Jason.”

His Eored shifted, reacting to the strange name and odd accent to the common tongue. Frowning at the lack of answer regarding his origins, Éomer asked commandingly, face stern, “What is your business in the Riddermark?”

This time, the answer was quicker than expected but spoken blankly, “I'm looking for help for my...brother.”

Narrowing his eyes at the body by Jason's feet, Éomer said, “You mean that man over there.”

“His leg's injured. Infected.”

“Why should we help you?”

There was a rebellious frown. “I never asked _you_ for help.”

The words had the desired effect of provoking his warriors. The horse lord commented sternly, "That cheek of yours will be your undoing."

He could see it, the beginnings of a snarl that Jason didn't even try to hide. “Fine. Because he'll _die_. And if you aren't willing-”

Éomer studied the young man and his turbulent veneer, the resolve he held, and thought, _“Perhaps not battle-weary then. Fiery. His spirit is fiery.”_ He spoke, interrupting the rant, “-You also battled our foes and killed them, receiving injury in turn, is that not true?”

That gave him pause. “They were trying to kill us, so." Jason shifted the sword in his hand.

“You did well.” The praise did not garner any reaction of pride. Interesting. Counting the number of orc bodies circling Jason, it was near a dozen. “We will help you but-”

Éothain jumped in in protest, as if knowing his words, “They could be spies of the enemy!”

Jason tensed, eyes staring straight at Éothain before drawling, “Correct me if I'm wrong but I think your enemy would try and decapitate you first and not these bastards.” He kicked one of the dead beasts at his feet in emphasis.

Still, he considered. Éomer knew that his second-in-command had good reason to be suspicious. Strange men wandering the lands of Rohan were not welcomed – like the man, the elf and the dwarf that they encountered early last morning. As the darkness grew, so did Sauron's strength. And with the white wizard Saruman's terrible deception and treacherous Wormtongue with his poisonous words, they were already at a disadvantage against the forces of Isengard...Could this Jason and his brother be Haradrim or Easterling? His stance and attitude says otherwise and Éomer knew he was a good judge of character; there were so _few_ capable warriors now and if they were enemies of their enemies...

“There has been too much bloodshed already.”

“But my lord-!”

“Bring them to the camp.” Flinty eyes stared down at Jason as if daring him to attack his Eored when they showed kindness. “We will help them as long as _Jason_ takes up a sword.” Éomer challenged the young adult, “What say you?”

Jason seemed to consider the offer, his lips turned downwards in a frown when he glanced at the unconscious man at his feet, before nodding curtly. “Fine.” Green-blue eyes blazed. “You have a deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written for nearly two years now and have never written for the LOTR fandom so please excuse my rustiness and/or lack of knowledge. The plotbunny was just too compelling.


End file.
